The Washington critic., 1887-01-06
Written for Tm WASHINGTON CmTtc.
A WOMAN'S FAITH.

wish for nothing else, but | suppose
nobody yet was ever satisfied, and that
same ambition proved the great rock in
my way to happiness.
Like my father before me, was m
artist. lived for nothing else; paint.
ing was my very life. Added to my
inherited talent / had studied abroad
for some years, and at twen,y.threc re.
turned 10 my own country, America, n
finished artist in the eyes of the world.
AS have before intimated, with this
talent inherited money, consequently
soon became lion in society.
Social enjoyment, however, served
only to render me dissatisfied. My
ambition would never let me rest.
From my youth up l had conceived
the idea of painting q picture-not an
ordinary picture, but something that
would make the world gaze with bated
breath; would place my name In ilam-
ing letters upon the tablet of fame,
never to be elinced. Yet where would
/ find the subject? Time and again
had begun what my fancy predicted
would be the picture, and each time
had flung away palette aud brushes in
disgust. At last decided to repair to
one of the Southern States, where |
had often heard that most beautiful seen.
cry, which constitutes an artists para
disc, abounded. And so one fine day In
the summer Of 1S-, found myself
drifting down the blue - river, lazily
thinking of the gay circles from which
had torn myself. 1 will confess
had half decided to return, for this
was the third week | had iloatcd daily
down the most beautiful river Of the
South, and the same old song rang In
my heart-"unsuccessful." Then /
had made many exquisite sketches, but
none that even would suggest My
Picture.
I aroused myself suddenly, on dis.
covering that the rare Southern sun
was setting. and l yet far from the
landing. With few firm strokes
brought my canoe around sharp
bend, and suddenly beheld, half buried
in the rich green foliage of the old
trees, small log cabin. 1t looked
truly like fairy bower, for far and
near were only ilowors-nowers of
every hue and description. l would
have fastened on towards my destina.
tion, but upon raising my cyes-I
think / stopped breathing moment
In the low cabin door stood Il figure-a
girls figure, slight and full of an indie.
scribable grace. The face, can | ever
portray it? The golden, slanting rays
of the setting sun streamed through
the giant trees and fell full upon her.
Though only few steps apart, she
did not seem TO notice me; her large,
soft eyes, full of fearful sorrow,
looked out upon the rivers broad eX-
panse with an expression of such pc.
culiar despair as | will never see again
on mortal face.
But further surprise--she wore a
soft, clinging robe of sapphire blue
silk, falling away from her throat and
shoulders, that cleaned like marble,
and half hiding the little feet. No ray
of color in the perfect, Madonna face
oil white, except the red, red lips, and
the wonderful, despairing dark eyes,
framed in a .profusion of red gold hair,
that shone like halo in the sunlight
around the pure brow, and fell like q
sheet of living, ripping light about the
perfect throat. This was all-no, those
Tiny, white hands clasped loosely II
great, fragrant bunch Of wlde.blown
pink flowers.
l had been resting quietly upon my
oars. felt as though could not take
my eyes from that beautiful face, with
its indescribable expression of grief
and longing. A great desire filled me
to draw nearer. struck out my oar
with long, low sweep. Light as it
was, what a change came over the little
figure. She leaned eagerly forward; a
new light shone In the wondrous dark
eyes, the red lips trcmbled, the slight
fingers crushed the pink blossoms be.
tween them-one little glad, sup
pressed cry as the end of the canoe
came in sight; and then, and then
she gave one long, long look into my
face, the red lips blanched, the little
hands with the trembling pink flowers
thrown far above the golden head, and
with low moan she vanished into the
darkness of the little room.
a feeling of deep pity filled my
heart; pity for this young creature
who evidently watched and waited for
some loved one that came not
And yet, / was thrilled with kind
of delicious joy, for here, here at la.i
was-My Picture. Could but trans.
fer to canvas the expression of that
face fame was my own. Evening af.
Ter evening found me upon the river
sheltered by the mighty trees, gazing
with an artists love on the picture In
the doorway. AT no other timc was
il visible save at the sunset hour; aud
the moment the last ray faded, the
lovely face poled and the girl was gone
This only gave me one short hour tC
have my model before me. and
worked faithfully. Time and again
did | portray it upon canvas, and
each time eiIacod it, There was the
slight figure, the head In its red. gold
glory, the little hands tcndcrly clasp
ing the pink flowers but the cNpres
sion-never-never could catch the
sad light in the great, dark eyes, the
almost invisible trembling of the sweet
red lips.
At last learned her story. Although
still but girl, she had had somC
years before q lover, tall, dashing
young fellow, known up and down tho
river for his daring feats in rowing
and swimming and he was handsome
too with dark, lowell laden eyes and
waving hair, n winning smile and
voice as tender us woman's. lie had
first been seen, stranger as | was
rowing up aud down the river, and
though jolly companion, he wa,
stamped at once by the natives as
much too cultivated for their society
and, too, a lurking dislrust was cngen
dcred for his handsome, half.closed
eyes, sweet smile and tender voice.
But, the old old story. These very
attributes of this strong, daring young
fellow stole the pure heart of my
lovely model, and she loved him witt